Persuasion
by Januscars
Summary: A gunman holds a gun to John's head, and Sherlock proves to be very persuasive when he wants to be...


**Persuasion **

John choked as the arm around his neck tightened, cutting off his windpipe. The gun pressed against his chin was all the motivation he needed to keep still, and so he bit down hard on his cheek to prevent himself from crying out. It would do nothing to help the situation.

Lestrade looked aghast. He looked as though he was torn between crying and screaming, and anger was certainly mixed in there as well. He had just dropped his gun at the command of the gun-wielding criminal, and was now grasping the air as if dearly wishing it would harden into another weapon.

Sherlock stood a few metres to Greg's left, face torn between horror and fury. John hadn't seen his face display that much emotion many times, and he took a moment to appreciate it. But his mind was firmly focussed on the gun pressed into his jaw, and it was hard to concentrate on anything else. For a second he wished Sally and Anderson was here, just to see their reactions to Sherlock's face. Then he decided the lack of oxygen was affecting his brain. There was no way he would want Sally and Anderson here.

The large man holding John's windpipe in a death grip was smiling and shaking the doctor slightly. Perhaps it was to accentuate John's immediate vulnerability. Whatever it was, this combination of strangulation and ragdoll treatment meant that John was slowly turning a horrid puce colour, and the noises escaping his lips took the form of a ghastly constricted rasp. The retching cough-like splutters were pulled from his throat against his will.

"Tell me, Mr Holmes," hissed the gunman with glee, totally failing to hide his insane euphoria, "Give me one reason why I shouldn't shoot Dr Watson right here, right now."

Sherlock stared at him in incredulity, but for a moment the words couldn't form.

"You've got a minute to convince me," the gunman said happily, liking his new game, "then _poof_!" he mimed a bullet entering the doctor's brain. The man was a regular madman, and even worse, he was a regular madman with a loaded gun.

John could see the thoughts cascading through the detective's mind. He was scouring his mind palace for something, anything to say. His face was becoming frantic, as seconds ticked past, and John's eyes watered more intensely.

"When are you people going to learn?" Sherlock finally asked in a low voice, "threatening John is not going to get you anywhere."

The gunman scowled "Why?" he hissed.

Sherlock tightened his hands into fists, "Because, to me, the fact that you threatened to kill him is enough to justify your death."

The man's voice was contemptuous now, and - assuming this was a bluff - he hammered his point home. "You can't kill me, not while I have him. I'll be going now," he began to back away, dragging John behind him, "I'm taking Doctor Watson with me. You follow me, and you'll be searching for a remnant of his body to bury. I'll be far away before you can even board a plane."

There was a pause. Sherlock considered this reply.

"True enough. My friend is certainly an effective bargaining tool." He took a further deep breath, and continued with a slightly bitter tone, "But I feel obliged to warn you. And, though it pains me to do so, give you a chance to back out."

The gunman stopped retreating, but his grip tightened, and John's thick breathing escalated in pitch. Sherlock stared into the gunman's eyes, keeping his voice low and angry.

"I will follow you for the rest of your very, very short life. I will hound you from country to country, I will make it my personal goal in life to make yours a living hell. Forget a quick bullet to the head. I won't kill you."

The gunman was uncharacteristically silent.

"I will torture you to within an inch of your life. I will make you suffer a thousand times for every second you've held a gun to his head. Then I shall do it again. I won't stop until you're begging for death. Then I tear out your throat with my bare hands."

The gunman scoffed, "You'd never."

Sherlock glared at him, and suddenly the full force of his absolute anger was obvious in his gaze.

"Bet your life?"

The hand that held John's throat loosened. John took a deep, shuddering breath, and staggered forward, but the gunman held him upright, gun still directed in the general vicinity of his head.

"I'll let him go if you let me go," the man whispered. None of the glee was left in that voice.

"No. You let him go, and I won't kill you. You let him go, and you will be arrested and spend your life in prison. You let him go, and you will get out of here in one piece. If, perhaps, in handcuffs."

The gunman wavered slightly. Sherlock could see in his face that the threat had been taken seriously. The man had known what he was getting into, in taking Sherlock on, and now he was reaping the consequences. He had taken a risk, and it had not paid off.

He also did not like the idea of having his throat ripped out.

"Last chance." Sherlock hissed, "Last chance to get out of here alive. I advise you take it."

The pause was more than pregnant. John felt a bead of sweat drip off his nose. The gun was wavering in the sweaty grip.

Then there was a clatter, as the heavy weapon dropped to the ground. John lurched away from the gunman and fell to the floor, holding his throat and coughing. Before the madman could move to defend himself, Sherlock's fist had crashed into the side of his jaw, sending him sprawling onto the ground, unconscious.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked frantically, dropping to his knees beside John and lifting his face so that he could look into his eyes, "Are you alright?"

John nodded, and swallowed, "Ye- yeah. 'm fine."

Sherlock sat back on the floor and rubbed his knuckles. Lestrade was busy placing the gunman's hands in handcuffs.

There was yet another pause, although this one was more awkward than dangerous. John was still panting slightly, and his throat felt as if it was on fire. Sherlock was holding his face in his hands, jaw clenched in anger.

"You put on quite a show there," John said croakily, and Sherlock smirked, lowering his hands, clenching them into fists, trying to disguise the shaking. His face was clear of expression, and not a tear graced his cheek. But the emotion there was obvious.

"He bought it, that's for sure. C'mon," he gently lifted John to his feet, "Let's get out of here before they can smother you in shock blankets."

"I dunno," John said hoarsely, staggering a little as his legs refused to fully support him, "I could do with one. And some tea."

"You can always do with tea."

"Well, yes. I do get shocked rather a lot, after all." John rubbed his throat and shuddered slightly. Sherlock was looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and John could tell the detective didn't want John to notice his concern.

But the man's arm had not left his shoulders, and John smiled inside. It was almost worth times like this, just to glimpse that moment of fear that came with John's danger. It was worth as, well, proof. Proof of what John always claimed: that Sherlock Holmes had a hell of a heart. It just took a hell of a lot to see it.

They exited the building to be greeted by the blue and red lights of four or five police cars, and John heard Sherlock groan. The detective's bearing stiffened instantly as two familiar figures stalked towards them.

"Can we leave?" Sherlock asked in a strained voice, and John laughed. It didn't do much to alleviate the atmosphere, as the laugh was dry and croaky. Sherlock winced a little.

"What the hell happened to you?" Donovan asked with a slight sneer in her voice, and John felt like hitting her.

Sherlock whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "If she starts harassing us I swear I'll…"

"Me too. Let's get out of here."

* * *

Donovan turned to Lestrade.

"What the hell happened to them?" she asked. Greg shook his head.

"You would not believe." He said quietly, "He is so lucky."

Donovan raised an eyebrow.

"What? The freak? Yeah, I'll bet."

Greg shook his head. "John. He's lucky to have…'the freak'."

Sally gawped at him, "Huh?"

Greg rubbed a hand over his jaw, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." He replied.

She never got another word out of him about it.

* * *

**A/N: Everyone cheer for the Kiwis! Good old New Zealand has legalized gay marriage! (Hint hint, Australian government?)**


End file.
